Work Text:
BEFORE THE STORM
Altaїr does a very good starfish impression, that day.
It is morning, far too early by any decent standards, and Malik wakes, alerted by the minute scrape of wood against hinge: the lattice has been lifted. Someone is in the bureau. He rises swiftly and silently, foregoing boots, shirt and djellaba in favor of a dagger slipped from a ready sheath, and steals out of his private chamber, tense.
Assassin bureaus are well-guarded secrets and usually safe places, but Malik can't not be cautious: disturbing news have reached his ears lately, of political shifts and changes that may spell doom for all who live in the Holy Land. A loaded, tense atmosphere lies over Jerusalem; even the beggars and madmen in the streets have noticed, peering suspiciously now at anyone who walks by instead of openly accosting them for a coin.
Malik's work room lies undisturbed, the coals in his small hearth fire still glowing haphazardly. The remains of last night's meal, left on the end of the counter when fatigue overwhelmed the need for tidiness, have attracted a lazily circling fly. Malik tiptoes to the wall next to the open doorway that leads into the courtyard and lifts his dagger at hip-level, holding it out so the blade shows the intruder's reflection.
The sight of familiar white robes divided by red eases the tension from his shoulders, but he does not yet relax. Instead, a frisson of anticipation makes him grin as he shifts silently to stand in the doorway. He leans casually against the wood, feet crossed at the ankles, appreciating the sight.
His unannounced visitor is yet unaware of him, probably thinks him still asleep.
It is rare to be given a chance to watch Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad when the man thinks he isn't being observed. Rarer still for Altaїr to miss so obvious a spectator, when he is usually preternaturally aware of his surroundings, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
Still hooded, Altaїr crouches on the edge of the fountain, cupped hands lifted to his mouth to drink thirstily. That done, he inspects his hidden blade. The tails of his robe trail the ground, darkened with travel-dust. The red sash, a splash of color, has caught on Altaїr's booted heel. He carries all his weapons – all of them, Malik notes with a start – and looks like a bird of prey enjoying a moment's respite from a harrowing hunt.
And that, too, is a rare sight.
Malik steps into the courtyard and approaches soundlessly, by now wondering why the man hasn't noticed him yet. It isn't like Altaїr to be so unaware, so preoccupied. When he is less than a man's length away and there is still no reaction, Malik clears his throat.
The result is spectacular.
Altaїr doesn't shout or gasp. He moves so fast it's little more than a blur to the untrained eye – propelling himself off the fountain, performing an impressive mid-air turn, hidden blade snapping out – and ends up in the corner between wall and fountain, arms and legs akimbo. Like a starfish.
There is a perfect moment of silence between them, where Malik stares, mouth open, and Altaїr gapes at him, eyes wide under the hood. Then Malik bursts out laughing.
“Very funny,” Altaїr grouches. He regains his balance easily, nonchalantly pushes away from the wall. A flush is spreading on his cheeks, embarrassment, maybe anger at being so surprised. With a jerk of his hand, the hidden blade retracts. “I was...”
“Woolgathering?” Malik supplies, still chuckling. “Really, you should have seen your face just now! Priceless.”
Altaїr's lips thin into an annoyed line. The previous months may have taken the edge off his arrogance, tamed his rebellious streak, attuned him more to the teachings and the meanings of the Creed, but he still riles easily. “Well. I'm tired. I wasn't paying attention.”
“I noticed,” Malik teases.
He drops his dagger onto a nearby pillow and steps into Altaїr's personal space, crowding him back against the wall. There is, as always, the thrill of the knowledge that he can do that now, and Malik revels in it while he waits for Altaїr to adjust to the invasion. It doesn't take long. Altaїr's hands land on his hips, calloused and warm, possessive, and that is thrilling as well.
Malik's kiss is just as possessive. He drags Altaїr's hood down and rests his palm at the back of a sweaty neck, smiling at his own eagerness. He has been looking forward to this more than he probably should.
To think: three months ago, he'd rather have had his tongue torn out than having it tangling playfully with Altaїr's! Amusing, how swiftly his world can change. But sobering as well; each time they touch, he is reminded of how close they came to never reaching this point at all – not that he'd ever thought they would, after all that happened.
Yet here they are, and Malik can't think of a place he'd rather be.
Altaїr draws back first, resting his head against the wall. He studies Malik, eyes half-lidded, annoyance and embarrassment gone. “Forgive me, but I am tired. I rode all night.”
“I'm surprised to see you so soon. I expected you to arrive in two days,” Malik admits, not yet making a move to step away. He rather enjoys leaning against the other man like this, feeling the heat of Altaїr's body against his. “I take it your latest assignment was a success?”
“The Knights Teutonic will need a new leader, and Damascus is one corpse richer.”
“And?”
“And, nothing. The deed is done, and Meister Sibrand is dead.”
The words are spoken with an indifferent tone – indifferent, not bragging as they would have been, before – but Malik can tell there's something more, something that bothers Altaїr. It shows in the way he's looking downward so pointedly to where his hands rest on Malik's hips, brows furrowed in thought.
Altaїr's thumbs follow the sharp dip of hip down into the waistband of Malik's pants.
Malik lifts an eyebrow. “I thought you said you're tired.”
“I am.”
Still, Altaїr doesn't look away, and his thumbs are now sliding along skin beneath Malik's waistband, brushes of heat far too close to where Malik feels a stir of interest. There's a shadow of a smile on Altaїr's lips, and a shadow of the old arrogance – he's probably thrilled that he can elicit such a response. Normally, Malik would call him on that – that, and what he suspects is a blatant attempt to change the topic – but they haven't seen each other in over a month and -
A loud crash startles them both.
Altaїr tenses to the point where his thumbs dig painfully into the soft skin of Malik's lower belly, sharp gaze trained on the lattice above them. The crash is followed by muffled, creative cursing and the telltale sounds of a mule's annoyed braying. Malik releases a slow sigh. Probably a merchant, setting up his stall early somewhere on the street outside. But the moment is ruined, and he takes in Altaїr's tense posture, the way his eyes are subtly red-rimmed from more than the journey's dust. The man is in need of rest and a bath.
“Come,” he says, slipping his hold from the back of Altaїr's neck to his shoulder. “Wash that dust off and sleep. My bed should still be warm. I've an errand that needs to be run, I might as well do it now, before the streets are too crowded.”
Altaїr relaxes far more slowly, looking irritated at the untimely interruption but so thankful at the mention of rest that Malik can't help but grin again before he steps away. Perhaps, once he's done with the day's chores and Altaїr has rested, that bed will be used for something other than sleeping.
That, too, is something Malik has been looking forward to.
- - -
Meister Sibrand of the Knights Teutonic is dead. Malik doesn't know when that raving lunatic fell to Altaїr's blade, but the repercussions have reached Jerusalem already: the guards have been doubled and are more vicious than usual. Heavily armed knights, on foot or on horse, linger among them, inhuman with their faces hidden by metal helmets.
Malik knows to avoid them and the guards. He isn't a coward. He knows what he's capable of, what he's done already, his missing left arm something he swiftly learned how to compensate for. With a sword or dagger in his remaining hand, he is a force to be reckoned with, and he takes pride in that knowledge. He could rise to the insults, the derisive glances that mark him a cripple, worth less than dirt, half-man; he could cut a swath through the guards from the bureau to the walls of Jerusalem, too.
A wise man, however, knows when not to fight. Jerusalem's population is quick to look away when someone is picked on, even openly brutalized in the streets, to avoid getting caught up in it. They are, however, just as swift to remember those who do fight back, and if it is only to later romanticize the fools who stood up for themselves.
Malik isn't a fool, and he certainly isn't a martyr either. He is a fixture of Jerusalem, a contact, the proprietor and caretaker of the bureau, someone the Assassins entrust their safety to. That requires relative anonymity. If that means having to avoid the guards and other unsavory individuals in order to avoid drawing attention to himself, so be it.
His business in the streets is quickly dealt with: the meeting with his informant takes less than five minutes, the exchange of information about crusader movement in the west of the Holy Land done under cover of perusing a market stall. Malik receives an updated map of that area – the road to Ramleh and Yafa, always rife with crime, the guard posts there manned with men little better than the bandits they are supposed to protect travelers against – and passes on a map of Jerusalem in return, for the rafiq of Ramleh.
The informant, a little man, some distant relative of Haider's, draws Malik aside, away from the market stall and its eager merchant. “Be careful, rafiq. The guards and knights are more alert than ever and they have been given strict orders to look for men dressed in white garb.”
“To take in for questioning?”
“To kill on sight.”
The informant vanishes into the crowd, leaving Malik to ponder that disturbing bit of news. He tells himself it was only a matter of time – there are only so many times the Assassins can strike openly before someone in the enemy ranks finally wises up and points out the obvious. Still, it doesn't bode well, neither for him nor the Assassins. Nor, he thinks ruefully, for the multitudes of ordinary citizens with a habit of dressing in white, by choice or calling.
The day seeks to drive that last point home rather forcefully.
On his way back to the bureau, Malik comes across a badly beaten scholar; an old man, white-haired and harmless, helped to his feet by nervous-looking bystanders. Two guards, Saracens by their language, stand nearby, brazen and boisterous. One is casually cleaning the bloodied, blunt end of his lance with a rag.
Disturbed, Malik walks on, buys fresh fruit at yet another market stall, conversing a bit with the owner. Jerusalem's citizens are natural gossipers and much of Malik's knowledge about the city's workings comes from listening where crowds gather. That was something he had to learn upon taking up the black djellaba: how to listen. And oh, how he'd hated it at first, that silent art. Before, extracting information had been a simple act of cornering and threatening a potential source of information, and during the first weeks Malik itched to apply that tactic – it would have been a welcome chance to relieve himself of frustration.
Now, he doesn't mind it. A good Assassin knows to adapt to any situation.
What he hears this morning is not to his liking. The assassination of Meister Sibrand is the main topic of gossip, but whereas before people cheered and joked covertly about yet another crusader meeting a well-deserved end, this morning there are different voices, different opinions.
“Those damned Assassins,” a woman hisses, kohl-rimmed eyes flashing above her veil. “They'll be the death of us yet! To strike so openly – think about it! Soon the crusaders will be taking out their ire on us, just out of spite.”
There are murmurs of agreement around her. Malik moves on, but he only has to take about ten steps before he overhears a conversation between two merchants.
“- killed so cowardly,” one says, twirling the end of his oiled mustache. “On his own ship, no less.”
“Wasn't he a close confidante of King Richard's?”
“Yes, and we can probably expect some form of retaliation.” The mustached merchant sighs. “Someone should just burn Masyaf to the ground. Rid us of this plague once and for all. We have enough problems already, we don't need those scarecrows to make things worse for us.”
The other merchant shrugs. “It'll happen soon enough. Maybe even by Saladin's own hand.”
Malik arrives at the end of the marketplace, fuming silently. Scarecrows! Plague! The very men working diligently to save the Holy Land from the usurpers, demeaned as such! All the lives lost, the blood shed, for a worthy cause – and such ungratefulness as payment. Ignorant, cowardly cockroaches -
“Out of the way, cripple!” a harsh voice bellows behind him.
Malik is shoved to the side, catching himself against the wall of a house. His bag of purchased fruit slips from his hold, dates and oranges rolling over the trampled dirt. A booted foot crushes one of the oranges, juice squirting everywhere, and Malik lifts his gaze to see the two guards from earlier walking away without even looking back at him.
He doesn't think twice about following them.
- - -
Altaїr is still asleep when Malik returns to the bureau, and Malik is thankful for that small mercy: he is in a spectacularly bad mood. Altaїr would be an altogether too easy target, despite how things are mending and changing between them, and Malik knows himself, knows how easily he tends to lash out sometimes, even at those who don't deserve it. He abandons his acquired map on the counter, flings his djellaba into a corner, and takes his bloodied sword to the courtyard to clean in the fountain, seeking to calm himself.
If anything, seeing the blood wash off so easily makes him more irate.
It isn't enough.
Killing the guards was as a drop of water onto a hot stone, a fizzle of moisture into a raging bonfire that threatens to swallow the Holy Land whole. Malik doesn't believe in the teachings of the Prophet; he doesn't give a damn about the convoluted Christian version of events, either, instead seeing the crusades for what they are: greedy grabs for power, land, riches and fame, done by men not worth the crowns they wear or the armor that marks them 'knights'.
And the Assassins, him, caught in an endless battle, now made harder by the very people they are trying to protect.
Malik sits back on his heels, sword across his knees, and takes a cleansing breath. He remembers Altaїr coming into the bureau, weeks ago, voicing doubt and asking uncomfortable questions. At the time, Malik had brushed him off, seeing it more as a streak of Altaїr's rebellious nature, that he dared doubt the wisdom of their Mentor's decisions and the proclaimed evil nature of these men marked as targets, Saracens and crusaders both, corrupted by power and greed.
Now, Malik isn't so sure.
Now, he begins to wonder. Altaїr's targets, selected by Al Mualim – their deaths have not impacted the encroaching crusaders at all. If anything, their deaths have united -
“What's wrong?”
It is Malik's turn to be sneaked up upon, and he takes it badly. His undignified flail lands him half on his side, sword raised across his body to defend, heart hammering in his throat.
Altaїr blinks at him, looking sleep-rumpled and standing in the open doorway. He looks from Malik to the sword in Malik's hand, to Malik's discarded djellaba. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Malik snaps, irritated. He discards the sword, pushes himself back upright, and glares. “Go back to sleep, fool. Leave me alone.”
Altaїr shifts half a step back, looking stung. He's barefoot and shirtless, pants riding low on narrow hips – Malik's gaze focuses on a particular scar, white and prominent almost in the exact center of Altaїr's upper body. A scar Malik himself put there when tempers clashed and he lost himself to anger.
Malik almost resents the sting of guilt he feels at the sight of that scar...but it also reminds him of what can happen if he doesn't contain his fury.
None of this morning's events are Altaїr's fault. And that damned novice has that look about him now that speaks of determination and a bullheadedness that matches his own, a look Malik knows means Altaїr isn't going anywhere.
Aggravating, infuriating, wonderful man!
Malik holds his hand out, giving in to the inevitable. “Come here.”
Altaїr approaches slowly, bending to take Malik's outstretched hand and letting himself be tugged down to the ground. He sits close to Malik, their thighs pressed together. The bright morning sun casts a golden hue over his shoulders, puts a light in his eyes, and Malik apparently is a hopelessly romantic sap to even notice these things, but he can't help it. He wraps his arm around Altaїr's waist, leans in, lips finding a resting place on one muscled shoulder.
“You smell of blood,” Altaїr says.
“I spilled blood.” Malik sighs, allowing the last of his frustration to fade, and nips at sun-warmed skin. “Your questions. Your doubts. Tell me again. Tell me everything.”
“Why?” A note of caution creeps into Altaїr's tone of voice. “What happened? Last time we spoke of this, you said I was seeing ghosts.”
Malik admits, “I may be seeing them, too.”
He recounts the morning's events at the market, leaving nothing out. Afterward, Altaїr sits quietly, frowning at their joined hands.
“It was only a matter of time. We've become too conspicuous. I fear striking openly will soon no longer be possible. I have been...doubting our Mentor's ways for some time now. And his intentions.” Altaїr speaks slowly, as if he's carefully weighing every word. “The men I was sent to kill...they are all connected, but not as Al Mualim claims. They are not collaborators meaning to support the crusade...they are something more than that. Some common cause unites them – greed, yes, but there is more.” Altaїr picks at a loose thread of carpet. “And Al Mualim is tangled up in it somehow, along with that damned artifact, that 'Templar treasure'."
Malik feels a frisson of unease skitter down his spine. What Altaїr is saying amounts to treason. To doubt the Mentor of the Levantine brotherhood – to doubt the wisdom of Al Mualim, learned and powerful figurehead of the Assassins – is as marking themselves traitors. Al Mualim represents the Creed. To doubt the Creed is to doubt their own purpose. Yet Malik cannot bring himself to protest, not when much of what Altaїr says perfectly reflects his earlier thoughts.
“Tangled up in it how?” he asks.
“I don't know. Not yet. But I know he's keeping things from us.” Shifting uncomfortably, Altaїr gives Malik a sidelong glance. “Sibrand was the last to stand between me and Robert de Sablé. In two days, de Sablé attends Majd Addin's funeral here in Jerusalem. I plan to be there, and I plan to have answers from him.”
Malik remembers Robert de Sablé all too well: that hulking, scarred giant of a man, so self-possessed and speaking in riddles in that affected tone of voice that had grated on Malik's nerves even the first time he laid eyes on him. He remembers de Sablé throwing Altaїr from the primary hall of Solomon's Temple and turning so casually to Malik and Kadar. His lackadaisical 'get rid of them', as though Malik and and his brother were not even worth his full attention. Yes, Malik remembers. That moment, he'll never forget. It changed everything.
“It should be you,” Altaїr says, looking at him knowingly. “It should be your blade that ends that life, not mine.”
“Let's not talk about that now,” Malik says.
- - -
They don't talk about it.
Altaїr goes back to sleep, needing the rest after a night spent riding from Masyaf to Jerusalem. Malik putters around the bureau aimlessly, cleaning up, sharpening his sword, battling the onset of a headache that has nothing to do with the day's encroaching heat. His mind is in turmoil and he has no one to blame for it but himself: he doubts, he questions...
Perhaps Malik is simply a weak man. Perhaps his lack of faith comes from being so far from Masyaf and Al Mualim, whose calm words and wise teachings have ever managed to put to rest the qualms of Malik's spirit. Perhaps living in Jerusalem is slowly corrupting him, too, leading him astray from the true path.
No.
He isn't weak, and he certainly isn't corrupted. Malik has gone through things that would leave other men weeping on the ground, destroyed, mere husks of their former selves. If anything, he has gone through heartache and loss and come out the other side stronger, settled more firmly in himself than ever before.
'And you called Altaїr arrogant', he thinks to himself, not without mirth.
Haider drops by the bureau in the early afternoon, as he does most days, time permitting. Malik wouldn't go so far as to call the current leader of Jerusalem's spy network a friend, but he does trust him. Not enough to tell him about his personal worries and doubts – the spy network has little to do with the Assassins themselves, though Malik suspects whoever built it up intended for the spies to be a sort of extended arm of the brotherhood – but enough to task him with something he knows he can't task another Assassin with.
Haider seems a little confused by said task. “But eight of these men are already dead, rafiq. What good will learning about them now do?”
“There is something at work here that may affect us all.” Leaned against the counter, chin cupped in hand, Malik looks at the list of names he wrote down. Nine names – nine targets. Eight of them dead and the ninth soon to follow them. “I don't need to know about them as much as I need to know how they were connected. Who supported them? Who financed de Naplouse's hospital, who 'overlooked' Talal's slave trades...that sort of thing.”
Black eyes narrowing above the ever-present cowl, Haider nods slowly. “You think these Saracens and crusaders worked together.”
“I do.”
“How much time do my men and I have?”
“Two days. I know I'm asking much for so little time, so concentrate on the men killed here in Jerusalem.” Malik offers the list to Haider, who folds and slips it into his clothing. “Do not lose that. If it falls into the wrong hands...”
“No need to worry, rafiq. I will not lose it.” Haider bows and leaves.
Malik locks the lattice once he is gone, then stands at the merrily bubbling fountain, wondering if he's doing the right thing. Questioning and ignoring the tenets of the Creed was what had started Altaїr on his fall from grace, and now Malik follows in his footsteps – for different reasons, surely, but the result is the same.
'Everything is permitted', Malik tells himself. 'If I'm not allowed to question, to doubt, if only to put questions and doubt to rest...'
Part of him hopes they – Altaїr and he – are wrong. Another part suspects – knows – they're not.
He needs a distraction.
Malik sheds his djellaba and shirt on the way to his private chamber, dropping them on the end of the counter. After a moment's hesitation, he pulls the box with medical supplies from the shelf, palming a small bottle of oil usually used for an entirely different purpose than the one he has in mind.
Altaїr lies in a dapple of sunlight filtering in through the tiny, narrow windows near the ceiling of Malik's private chamber, asleep. He's half on his belly, half on his side, one leg bent, and the blanket is tangled around his calves. He's a study in juxtaposed impressions – tanned skin, smooth but marked by scars, supple curves between muscle clearly defined even in this relaxed state – and Malik lets that image of opposites work on him for a few minutes while he stands in the doorway and simply looks.
He's had ideas about this for so long, longer than he cares to remember. Some of them have already been put to the test. He knows the sounds Altaїr will make if Malik were to slide his fingers between those agile toes and his thumb against the arched sole of his foot. A vigorous massage of his back will have Altaїr stretching like a cat, fingers curling just so in the bedding. Malik knows what Altaїr tastes like, fresh from a fight, after a long night's sleep, or just whenever Malik damn well feels like tugging him close and taking his mouth because he can, now. He knows what other parts of the man taste like, too.
“How long are you going to stand there and stare?”
Malik glances up from where he's been studying the small of Altaїr's back and the curve of his buttocks, covered by loose pants. He can't see Altaїr's face from his position by the door, doesn't know how long the man has been awake, has been waiting -
Altaїr rolls over and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Stands, and stretches, fingertips reaching for the low ceiling. Steps forward, and makes to slip past Malik through the doorway.
“Where do you think you're going?” Malik asks, putting himself into his way.
One eyebrows curves and a small, mean smile turns the corners of Altaїr's mouth up. “I was going to fetch ink and parchment to write you an invitation.”
Malik brushes his knuckles against warm skin, just above Altaїr's waistband. “You're insufferable.”
“You're hard,” Altaїr says, pointing out the blatantly, visibly obvious. He flicks a finger against the oil bottle clutched in Malik's hand. “Is there a remedy for that in that medicine box of yours, too?”
Malik tackles him into the bed.
He retains enough coherent thought to shove the bottle of oil onto the table next to the bed, where it won't be broken by two men grappling in a mock fight, before he gives in to an insistent yank on his hair and lets Altaїr seal their lips together. They roll around on the bed, pillows and blankets going everywhere, until Malik ends up on top through the clever use of leverage. Panting, he stares down into glittering, narrowed eyes. The anticipation there makes him shiver, body tight with lust, with need. Altaїr was so careful the first time they came together – from lack of experience, but also still unsure of his welcome. He was careful the next time, too, and the one after that -
Not anymore.
His hands splay over Malik's backside, his thighs welcome Malik between them, and he pulls them together so hard Malik sees stars, bright and vivid against closed eyelids. The touch of skin to skin is a shock, always; Malik wraps his arm around the back of Altaїr's neck to keep him in place while his hips grind hungrily against a matching hardness. His mouth works down the side of Altaїr's throat in a series of wet bites, the last, just there where a vein pulses under thin skin, hard enough to make Altaїr rear up with a barely-held-in-check yelp that seamlessly transforms into a groan, long-ingrained instincts warring with lust.
“I want to fuck you,” Malik says into the shallow dip where collar bones meet. “I know you've never – but I want -”
Altaїr's fingernails leave seven burning grooves up from Malik's buttocks to his shoulder blades. He says nothing, but his eyes are liquid gold when he pushes with both hands against Malik's chest, separating them, and performs some sort of stunning contortionist act that leaves Malik dry-mouthed and staring at the pants dropping over the side of the bed.
Then he stares at the man before him, unabashedly aroused, displayed, naked: all his. To learn that Altaїr is deliciously uninhibited in bed once his initial insecurity wore off was something that took Malik's breath away the first time he was on the receiving end of it.
He feels just as breathless now.
Altaїr hooks two fingers into the waistband of Malik's pants. His free hand reaches for the oil bottle. His gaze never leaves Malik's face, not even when he uncorks the bottle with his teeth and upends it over his fingers, releasing the distinct aroma of almonds into the air between them.
“Watch,” Altaїr murmurs.
A horde of Templars tearing down the bureau walls couldn't bring Malik to look away now. He's still wearing his boots. He's still wearing his pants, though nimble fingers have worked open the laces somehow and are pulling him closer by those dangling strings of cloth. Knuckles brush against his erection – Malik hisses, shuffling forward until he sits on his heels between Altaїr's spread thighs, panting softly.
“Watch,” Altaїr murmurs, again.
He pulls his legs up, toes against Malik's shoulders, knees almost touching his own. So obscene – the visual impact is as a physical force, compelling and powerful. Altaїr discards the bottle onto the sheets, where it leaks a small pool of oil into clean linen. He lets go of the laces of Malik's pants, reaches down with slick fingers -
teases, small circles around furled muscle -
And the slow shudder that works its way from Altaїr's hips all the way to his shoulders, when one finger finally breeches that tight muscle, is what breaks Malik. He's so hard his center of gravity feels off, hard enough for the want to teeter on the edge of transforming into something painful.
Malik falls forward, catches himself on his hand, suspended above Altaїr. He has to look away or it will be over. Altaїr has always played a prominent part in most of Malik's most explicit dreams, but the reality, this, is a thousand times better. The way Altaїr's pupils are widening, the way his wrist flexes against Malik's prick, trapped between their bodies and still confined by those damn laces, the way his lips part when he lifts his head, tongue flicking over Malik's lips, small moans riding on panted breath -
“Hurry,” Malik pleads.
Altaїr's wrist flexes again, now with a different purpose. Slick-warm fingers grab and yank at laces, and finally, finally Malik feels himself guided. He presses forward, and Altaїr rocks up to meet him, and then there is only the tight, burning heat of Altaїr's body surrounding him and instinct taking over. Somehow, Malik manages to balance himself on his knees so he can work his hand between them, taking a firm hold of Altaїr's prick. Somehow, he manages to stroke in time with his thrusts instead of just holding on. Altaїr's legs splay out, knees toward the edges of the bed, demonstrating yet another astounding feat of flexibility. He holds onto Malik's hips, pulling him into each thrust.
Malik shouts when he comes. He doesn't know what. He only knows Altaїr is staring up at him, pupils so wide his eyes look black, moaning -
“Malik.”
- and arching, beautifully, heat spreading between their bellies and over Malik's fingers.
Afterward, exhausted, satisfied and aching in all the best places, Malik rolls to the side to give them both room to breathe. The air is thick with the scent of musk and almond oil, dust motes are dancing in the rays of afternoon sunlight, and he feels the onset of post-climax lethargy crawling toward him with a vengeance. He lies on his back, arm and legs spread, contend just to breathe and to bask in the afterglow.
Altaїr rolls into him, settling with a hand cupping Malik's right breast and his chin on top of his wrist.
“I must say,” Malik is still short of breath, “for someone who claims he never -”
“I practiced.”
Malik lifts his head. “...you what?”
Altaїr looks as debauched as Malik feels, but not quite as exhausted, which briefly strikes Malik as unfair. There is a smug smile on his lips, gentled only by the hair curling on his forehead just so, damp with sweat, and the still-rapid thud of his heartbeat against Malik's ribs. “There had to be something you were getting out of it when you let me take you, so I -”
Malik grabs the back of Altaїr's neck, shutting him up with a kiss. He doesn't need an explanation: his imagination is already filling in all the blanks in vivid detail.
- - -
They spend the rest of the day in bed, leaving only briefly to put together a meal when night falls, and they eat in bed, like decadent kings. Malik thinks he should feel guilty, wasting time like this, when the future holds such uncertainty, but finds he doesn't care. Their lives are fraught with peril and they spend little enough time together as it is, so these hours, snatched from the machinations of fate, are justifiably theirs. After the meal, Altaїr lies with his head on Malik's shoulder, an arm and a leg thrown possessively over him, fingers carding through the hair on Malik's chest, outlining symbols and words Malik lazily guesses at. They've drawn the blanket up to ward against the descending chill of the night. Candles burn on the table, casting flickering shadows into the corner of the room and across the ceiling.
“I don't mean to ruin the moment,” Altaїr says, “but what if Al Mualim is tangled up in this all somehow?”
Malik groans. He pinches the buttock his hand has been resting on. “You are ruining the moment.”
“Be serious.” Altaїr lifts his head, shifting so he can look Malik in the face. “What if?”
Malik thinks about 'what ifs'. He thinks about Haider, out in the city gathering information for him, about Al Mualim's curious interest in that artifact, that 'treasure'. About Robert de Sablé, cryptic and scarred, speaking in riddles, and the other men, Saracens and crusaders both, speaking of each other as 'brothers' as the Assassins do.
“I don't know,” he admits. “The Creed -”
“It's not a shield, Malik, stop -”
He pinches again, harder, semi-annoyed at the interruption. “- will survive, no matter what.”
“Will it?” Altaїr challenges.
“Why wouldn't it? Al Mualim is just a man, Altaїr, not a god. He did not invent the Creed.” Malik strokes up the path of Altaїr's spine to cup the back of his head. “He may have lead us for the past, what, thirty years? That doesn't make him sacrosanct. It doesn't make him infallible, either. If he is somehow behind all this, or tangled up in it...”
He doesn't finish that sentence, doesn't have to. Altaїr's expression is solemn, sober. They both know exactly what Malik is talking about.
“Find out what de Sablé knows,” Malik suggests. “Maybe we are wrong. Maybe this is all just an elaborate Templar plot, meant to turn us against our Mentor. Maybe we are seeing only ghosts, after all.”
“And if not?”
Malik pushes Altaїr's head back down against his shoulder. “Then we'll worry about it when it comes to us.”
- - -
END